Grief

I am the blood gushing out of my grandfather’s nose,

that seeps into the cracks of the old wooden floor.

I am the rough waves that hit the edge of the lighthouse,

only to be met by cascading darkness.

I am the many once-lit candles,

that flicker with solitude,

only to be blown out suddenly,

with no explanation.

I am the wide open fields,

that seem to go on for miles,

but only last a few.

I am the hymns sung at the service,

where the white snowflakes seem to contrast the color of my attire.

I am the many stones of the named,

yet only one seems to be clear,

and it’s someone whom I know.